Baby Hipsters
Hello child, currently masticating a chocolate croissant in my sight line—the brown-stained pastry whirling around in your gaping mouth like horrifically soiled sheets—I do not find you amusing. Although you are cleverly disguised so as to look “hip,” what with your tiny Replacements T-shirt and artistically disheveled hairdo, I recognize you for what you are: a wailing, whimpering, slightly damp excuse for a human being. Yes, your parents may be attractive in an I’m-way-too-fucking-old-to-live-in-Williamsburg-but-I’m-gonna-rock-this-sleeve-tat-anyway kind of way, but their tragically fading hotness is not enough to overshadow the horror that is you. Please remove yourself from this eating establishment. Brunch is not for fucking kids.
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